


Something Finer and Nobler

by ronqueesha



Series: My Warrior [5]
Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, F/M, Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronqueesha/pseuds/ronqueesha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3787174/chapters/8426944">Rest Now, My Warrior</a></p><p>Marcus Carter, the adopted son of the heroic Commander Shepard, is a criminal. </p><p>More than that, he's made an entire career of shaming the woman who adopted him following the horrors of the Reaper war. </p><p>But when people formerly close to the Commander begin dying one by one, Marcus has to make a choice. </p><p>Does he forgive the unforgivable, or does he let this private little war destroy everything he loves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the newly remixed "The Laws are Silent". You may recognize some things, you may not. I'm excited to get this story told, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as I enjoy writing it. 
> 
> For anyone clicking this and hasn't read "Rest Now, My Warrior", I STRONGLY suggest reading that first, because it sets up some major details that I explore here.

Marcus Carter towered over her, but it didn’t seem to matter. The mere presence of the legendary Jane Shepard filled the entire room, the entire building, hell the _entire_ _planet,_ and it dwarfed him. Part of his mind shrieked and flailed as it realized this, sending spikes of adrenaline and anxiety through the back of his skull, begging him to stop this and turn around. His bedroom stood just a few easy paces behind him. All he had to do was stop talking and he could go lie down, get some much needed sleep, and think this whole thing through.

Unfortunately, the rest of his mind, and his heart, hell his entire body, said to do the exact opposite. His heart raced against his ribs, his breaths came hot and heavy like an angry bull, and his eyes narrowed to slits. The world had turned almost as red as her graying hair, and he had his entire being locked onto a single target.

Her.

“Fuck you!” He yelled toward the woman who had adopted him almost twenty years ago. Their argument had long passed the point of trying to convince the other party of how right they were, now they were just screaming obscenities across their lavishly decorated living room.

To his shock, Jane did not return an insult of words. Instead, she grabbed a small Christmas decoration from a nearby wall and, with all the strength of someone who devoted their life to physical fitness and military precision, hurled it in his direction.

He watched it approach almost in slow motion, as if the entire world reduced its pace to savor this moment in history.

Even though the former soldier had thrown the decoration with all her might, she didn’t have the power she might have had in years gone by. The lack of her entire right arm almost threw her off balance, but only almost. She still had the grace and power to nearly hit his chest… nearly. With the world still in slo-mo, Marcus slid to the right far enough for the Rudolph reindeer doll to slide past his left shoulder and impact the wall behind him.

As the world returned to regular speed, he heard the crunch of the decorative wood snap and clatter to the floor. Ruined.

Still, instinct took over and Marcus raised his hands in a defensive pose, waiting for another assault.

When none came, he raised his head to get a better look at the woman who desperately wanted to be his mother, but never would. Her hair, which had previously been tied back in a bun, had come loose and ragged. Her eyes, the famous emerald stare that had once cowed Krogan warlords and pacified bloodthirsty Batarians, were wild and manic, showing red around the edges. Probably just like his. Also just like him, her breaths came in huffs and draws, except she had a distinctive ragged wheeze on every inhale. Another sign of injury and age.

“So this is it?” He asked as he returned to a neutral pose. “This is how the great Commander Shepard treats her son?”

The apartment went silent. He smiled as a sadistic string of words came to mind. “Tell me, did your Alliance bosses tell you to be this cruel, or are you thinking for yourself for once?”

“Get. Out.” Shepard hissed with more hatred than he thought possible from the tiny woman. If her anger had been physical, it might have burned the apartment to the ground.

Good.

It’s what he wanted.

“Fine.” He snapped back. Marcus didn’t think he needed to push his point further. He’d won this round, as evidenced by the fact that Shepard didn’t seem to be in the mood to throw any more Christmas decorations around, even if her face told the complete opposite story. That was just part of the old Jane, the soldier side of her, who could put on a warlike expression no matter how she felt inside. He had long ago become immune to that false front.

Just like the rest of her. A false front. A lie.

Marcus turned around and made brief eye contact with Liara, whose blue skin contrasted wildly with the dim evening lights and red-green holiday décor that covered the apartment. Other than the sneer that had been plastered onto his face ever since this argument started, he gave no indication of how he felt as he gave her wide berth and walked away from the living room.

He wished Liara could see his side, then this fighting might never have started in the first place. If the whispers he overheard were true, it seemed like she did long ago. Far back in the horrible days of reconstruction and recovery, he heard tale of Liara trying to keep Jane away from the Alliance. The rumors spoke of her hacking identity cards, stealing shuttles and even threatening the surviving Alliance government with some kind of Asari secrets if they didn’t let Shepard off their bloody hooks.

His heart fell into his chest as he passed the Asari. She didn’t speak a word to him, but he didn’t expect her to.

The apartment remained silent.

Past the living space, Marcus walked with heavy footfalls to his room, a modest sleeping room built just for him. His heart sank further.

Because next to it, in this dark and moody hallway, his little blue sister rested.

In the stillness, he thought he could hear the muffled tinny whines of someone listening to music through a headset, and the faint clacking sound of a holo-keyboard being worked at breakneck pace.

As he placed his hand on the control to his own door, Marcus let out a defeated sigh. He’d grown accustomed to those sounds from her room. The only reason they echoed into the hall was because she was desperately trying to distract herself from the noise the two humans in the apartment made.

Marcus did not recall packing, at least not the physical exertion of throwing his entire life into a single blue duffel (Alliance standard, because they had nothing else. Of fucking course). Later, after his mind cooled and he allowed himself time to think, he would look down to see his knuckles red and sore, with the bare hints of torn flesh above the bone.

However, in that one moment of time, all he could concentrate on were Shepard’s last two words, and his desperate need to follow them.

He had to get out.

Even knowing how much it would pain the growing young girl who sat a few feet away, separated by a thick wall and advanced 23rd century construction, he had to leave.

Get out.

He threw a leather jacket over his shoulders and slid his arms through the sleeves. A gift from one of his many “uncles” who had once served with Shepard. At least he thought it was from one of them. Could have been from Jack. She was more of an uncle than any of the men Jane knew.

Get out.

In a bare few seconds, he was out of the room and back in the gaudy decorations and broken ornamented living room. Shepard and Liara had both moved to the massive overstuffed couch that sat before a dim artificial fireplace. He could see the beginnings of tears streak down the human woman’s face.

Get out.

“You know something?” He heard himself growl, as if he weren’t yet in full control. “Sometimes I really wish you had died with the reapers.”

Get out.

He looked down at the woman who saved the galaxy. The woman who had risen above hell, abuse, war and the loss of a limb. The most famous person in the entire galaxy. The gold standard by which all humans were judged. A woman who had people all but worshiping the ground she walked on.

And he just wanted her to hurt.

Get out.

“Merry fucking Christmas, Jane Shepard.” He spat her name and shoved himself out the door.

Get out.

He didn’t think it was possible to slam shut an automatic sliding door, but he accomplished it.

Get out.

As he thudded away from the apartment, from the place the Alliance had quartered them in luxury and peace, he raised a firm middle finger to the sky. He knew they were watching. They were always watching.

Get out.

Alliance overlords. The government. Jane’s captors and overseers.

Get out.

She would never be free as long as their eyes lingered on her. And as long as she remained their willing toady, he could never be part of this family.

He was out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Six Years Later**

 

Siren covered her face with her palm as soon as she saw Marcus stand up.

“Oh for God’s sake, not again!” She mumbled.

The dingy pub they occupied reeked of stale alcohol and bodily fluids, and filled with people who shared the same odor. A tiny electric fan buzzed on the ceiling, giving the illusion of comfort and circulating air, but years of neglect and decay made it more of a decoration than a functional machine. Most of the pub’s lights shared the same attitude of the fan. They were active, and glowed a dark amber color, but didn’t provide much of any illumination.

She didn’t even want to think about the smoke that covered everything and practically seeped into her joints.

All around her, the dregs of society milled about in the tiny establishment, trying to drown whatever meager troubles weighed on their minds with cheap and horrific booze. Well, most of them were doing that. A few of them crowded around the man she had the misfortune to call her boss, and were shoving his thin frame around with cruel abandon.

“Look at this one, boys,” The largest, and ugliest, of the thugs said with a thick provincial accent. “He’s got one of them tattoos on his arm!”

Indeed, one of the few truly identifiable markers among Mark’s exceedingly plain features was the tattoo on his arm. A simple string of numbers and letters he had been forced to get some time in his past. She didn’t know the specifics of where and when.

“Yeah, I got _one of them there tattoos_! Wanna see it?” Marcus mocked the accent as he raised his arm for all to see.

“I hear tell that makes you a criminal, boy.” Thug One said.

“A wanted man.” Another, shorter man sneered.

“We don’t like criminals in this place.” A third one spoke up with a voice like a dying whale.

“Well that’s honestly a surprise.” Mark quipped as he lowered his arm. Siren spared a glance at him to see his scarred hands lower to his belt. “I bet you gentlemen have records that could match mine. Why don’t we all sit down, have a drink, and swap stories? We could bond.”

“I don’t think so.” The short thug said, again with a sneer. He tried to grab Marcus by the shirt collar, but he evaded the grasp.

“And why not? I could buy, if you’re all short on cash. Look, I actually have money this time.” From his belt to his pocket, Mark’s hands reached further down, then came back up with a credit chit. Unlike some of their previous adventures in places like this, this slab of metal and plastic was neither stolen nor counterfeit. He truly could make good on his promise to buy a round for the house. She prayed the others would listen to him.

“Look, fellas. Can I call you fellas?” Marcus said as he wrapped his arm around the first thug, waving the chit in the man’s face. “I’ve had a really long day, and I need to spend this afternoon getting absolutely destroyed by the stuff you try to pass off as alcohol in these parts. So let’s just part ways like friends, and we can forget this conversation ever happened. Whaddaya say?”

A proverbial wad of cash always worked wonders on the common folk, and Thug One was no exception. Whatever bloodlust had previously overtaken him fizzled in the presence of such meager, and legitimate, wealth.

“I… I think I could do that.” He tried snapping the chit from Mark’s hand, but it disappeared before he could touch it.

Instead, Siren’s partner-slash-boss twirled and stepped away from the men. He flashed the money again and took one step toward the bar. He tapped the filthy counter-top with a knuckle.

“A round for the house, my good man!” Mark called to the bartender.

Siren moved her hand away from her face as soon as the thugs followed suit and crowded around the structurally unstable “bar”. She had been holding her breath through the entire confrontation, and thus let in a long, comforting breath of stale air as it seemed the entire situation had been resolved peacefully. She closed her eyes and said a quick ‘thank you’ to the Asari goddess for the miracle.

Naturally, that’s when Marcus threw his first punch.

Still in her seat, Siren didn’t have a good vantage of what happened at first. But as the scuffle moved away from the bar, she realized what had happened.

The bartender was not a gruff, hirsute, stocky thug like most of the pub’s patrons, but a young woman, possibly the daughter of the actually gruff owner. Pretty, in a plain-ish sort of way, Siren guessed, but nothing to write home about. Based on the girl’s pained expression and the way she clutched at her chest, it seemed obvious that one of the men, in his lust for free alcohol, also tried to exercise his lust for people as well.

“Show some respect.” Marcus spat, followed by a disgusted grimace.

The thug was already on the ground by the time Siren stood up, her hand wrapping around her barely-concealed pistol.

In that exact instant, the other bar patrons swarmed Marcus, exacting revenge for their friend’s misfortune. They pummeled the thin man from all sides, punching and kicking at every corner of his exposed flesh. For his part, Mark fought back as best he could when outnumbered several-to-one. He dodged, he punched, he even slapped a few faces. But he did not have enough room to arm himself, or block the worst of the blows that rained upon him.

“I told him.” Siren said as she nonchalantly checked the ammunition in her weapon. It’s not that she enjoyed seeing Mark beaten, but… well… _she told him_. “I said this would end badly. But does he ever listen to me? Of course not.” The brawl spread like wildfire as she finalized that the mechanisms in her firearm were up to task. She had to nod her head to the right to avoid a chair that flew at her like a missile. It popped into a shower of dirt and wood shavings as it impacted the wall behind her.

She raised her gun into the air just as the short thug produced a knife from somewhere inside his shirt. The rusted blade glinted in the dull light as he aimed it at Marcus.

The first thing she shot was the malfunctioning fan, just because she disliked it.

Then she destroyed the housing it had been nailed to, which caused the entire construct to crash on top of the small crowd of belligerents. Dust and mold flew everywhere, and the clatter of broken wood and rent metal mixed well with the telltale sounds of broken bones.

The bar went silent, save the heavy panting breaths of the previously fighting men.

“Now you boys can put on a good show.” Siren said as she made a show of reloading the two bullets. She brushed some of her silver hair back as she did so, just to provide an extra bit of flair. “But I’ve been around a long time, and I must say that I’ve seen better.”

“You defending this criminal?” One of the men who had been victim of the falling fan asked between pained hisses.

“No, not really.” She admitted. “I just _really_ like shooting things. Also, I think we can agree he deserves at least a little bit of what he got.”

“Thanks for that.” Mark’s muffled sarcasm came from somewhere in the crowd.

“But, he’s also my… uh… partner. And I can’t afford to have him killed today. So I give you boys a choice.”

Her gun once again fully loaded, and her hair devilishly styled, Siren raised the weapon to eye level.

“You can continue beating that man to death, but I will continue to shoot holes in things that displease me.” She lowered the barrel, past the stomach of the nearest man and toward his groin.

“Or,” she said with chipper joy, “You can all get out and I’ll save these bullets for something more interesting than your shriveled packages.”  

The bar basted in silence. Even the terrified bartender girl disappeared behind a backdoor with the quiet footsteps of a temple mouse.

“What’s it gonna be?”

The short thug, the one with the knife, took a step closer to her. “Come one, we can take this bitch!”

His groin exploded before he took another lungful of gross pub air. He collapsed, knife dropped and forgotten. Fortunately for everyone’s ears, he did not scream as his brain processed what had just happened.

With very unnatural reflexes, Siren spent less than a second reorienting herself to aim at the rest of the crowd.

“Anyone else?”

Marcus hit the pub’s floor with a thud as whichever of the men let go of him and headed for the flimsy door. A few of the others moved to drag their injured comrade away before they, too, exited. Siren kept her gun on them at all times.

She counted to ten as soon as the two of them were alone, still pointing her weapon at the door and nearby windows, just in case someone decided to be stupid. She took careful steps toward Marcus, maneuvering around the ruined fan with heavy footfalls.

“You okay over there?” She called over her shoulder.

“Never better.” Mark grunted as he braced his arm against the flimsy bar. He stood up with great effort, and a quick glance at him revealed the telltale signs of swelling around his lips and jaw. He’d probably have a nasty black eye this time tomorrow.

“Was it worth it?” She asked.

“Totally. You shoulda seen what my face did to that guy’s fist.”

Once satisfied that no ambushes would come their way, Siren holstered her gun and turned toward Mark. With practiced, caring hands, she reached out for him to settle his weight on. Once she was sure he wouldn’t fall over, she guided him in slow, measured paces toward the door.

“So I guess this means we won’t be meeting the buyer today.”

“Oh, no, I met him.”

“What?”

“Hollister, the buyer, was here.”

“Where?” Siren’s artificial eyes darted around the empty pub, her heartbeat increasing as she realized what she had missed. Her internal HUD showed no other life signs in the building.

“You shot him in the nuts.”

Siren stopped in her tracks, which almost sent Marcus flying forward.

“You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re just messing with me.”

“No, that really was him.”

She started walking again, but this time she shook her head. “I figured something was wrong when he said to meet here of all places. I just figured it would be some kind of deep cover.”

“I assumed he was some kind of fabulously wealthy colonist with some strange fetishes, myself. Guess we were both wrong.”

“Did you at least get the money?”

Marcus turned his bruised head away from her. “What do you think?”

“I guess I’ll have to break the news to Ridek while you get cleaned up, then. We’ll just have to go another week without luxuries. You know, like food, water, fuel, that sort of stuff.”

“The money will take care of itself.” Marcus said at the two of them limped out of the pub and onto the street. The outside wasn’t much better than inside. Instead of stale air filled with mold, Siren’s lung filters were assaulted by the stench of industry and broken sewage systems. Thick clouds of smog covered the sky, blanketing the shoddy buildings in an orange haze. Siren hated these partially rebuilt colonies.

Once a few steps away from the bar, Siren reached down to palm her gun. Marcus as well reached down, but he did not touch his weapon. Instead, he brought up a small object.

A tiny stone figurine, carved by human hands so long ago that almost all of the details had been etched away. Still, the four limbs and tiny head made it clear it was a representation of a human being. Siren had studied it herself the moment it had been dug up, but she didn’t find it very interesting. Or worth the price that Hollister claimed he was willing to pay for it.

“Someone out there will want this.” Mark said as he stared at the object in his hand. “It’s history. History we dug up with our own sweat and effort. People appreciate the past.”

Siren had to stop him from walking. A smog-belching ancient vehicle roared through the street in front of them, paying absolutely no heed to the pedestrians in its way. She had to turn away when she thought she saw a young man fall in front of the wheels of the beast.

“Don’t worry, Siren. I’ll take care of us. I always do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus didn’t need to limp, but he felt like doing it. One of those putrid bar patrons had impeccable knee-aim, and managed to hit his tenders in the _perfect_ spot. That one place that didn’t cause any real damage, but still brought out typical nutshot pain responses: nausea, tight stomach muscles, and that weird tight/slash/sore feeling in the thighs. Besides, if he mimed extreme discomfort, it let him rest on Siren longer, which he really wanted to do as they walked through the dirty streets of Shuran colony.

He knew she could take much more without noticing. Hell, she could probably carry him all the way back to the port if she wanted to. He spared a glance at the exposed skin on her shoulders to make confirm his hypothesis of her showing no strain.

While much of the skin on her body was her original flesh-toned epidermis, parts of her were an unnerving silver, not unlike the polished metal of most starships these days. Plates on her torso, one on her neck, and completely silver arms made it abundantly clear that this woman was no longer human. Physically, at least. Her face also had subtle signs of similar artificial plating, but the surgeons who did this to her had the sense to keep her features intact, and coated the metal to match her skin. Only if you looked very closely could you see the seams on her cheeks, and one on the side of her scalp, near the hairline.

Her hair, which at one time had been black and reached her waist, was now shorter than his, and a glaring white. Even after knowing her for so long, he had no idea if it was a natural color, or yet another part of her physical reconstruction.

Even her name, Siren, was a construct. A new identity for a new person.

Marcus was quite familiar with people who experienced massive reconstructive surgery after the war. Most everyone in his generation knew at least one person who required extensive hospitalization. Hell, even Shepard herself had more synthetic parts than most people cared to admit. But her implants and replacements had been made by extremely rich people with extremely specific agendas, and were designed to hide behind regrown flesh and blood to complete the illusion that she had returned from her first death totally intact. The common folk in the post-war galaxy had to deal with significantly less resources, and often bombed-out ruins instead of hospitals.

Whoever she was before the Reapers had died long ago. Now there was only Siren. Half human, half machine. Sometimes, that machine-half came in handy when she had to mime the appearance of a dumb VI-driven mech, or when she needed to fool others into thinking she was a braindead sexbot or other crazy contraption. Of course, the parts of her that were still natural made sure she didn’t have to keep those illusions up long, nor did she suffer anyone trying to take advantage of her in those camouflaged states.

Also, she had a gun. A _real_ revolver, with real bullets instead of thermal clips and tiny mass effect generators. Even though it didn’t have quite the stopping power of modern firearms, it still had quite the effect on people, as that one guy in the bar now understood. She also liked making a show of reloading it every single time she spent some of those expensive bullets. Sometimes, the anticipation of waiting for the gun to return to form was more intimidating than her holding it at the ready.

Mark couldn’t help but felt smug that he knew someone with a real antique gun. Because he knew that Shepard did not know Siren. And even though the famous former soldier had not actually fired a weapon in decades, she still had a bit of gun envy left in her. She would have flipped to see the revolver in action.

Too bad for her.

After one too many moments of staring at her skin, both natural and artificial, Siren turned to look at him.

“Is there something on my face?” She deadpanned. “Did one of those jackoffs get any blood on me?”

“No, no.” Mark quickly spoke. “I’m just… looking.”

“Oh, well, stop it.” She hitched her shoulder and shoved him away. Not rudely, but enough to let him know that she was on to his game and would let him walk on his own two legs, sore as they were.

“Not a chance.”

“I swear by my antique weapon I will end you one day, Marcus Carter.” She mock-threatened as the pair navigated around a particularly dense group of colonists gathered in the middle of the thoroughfare.

“So any ideas about what to do about that thing in your hand?” Siren asked as soon as they passed the group.

Marcus looked down once again to regard the token. A simple figurine of stone, carved in a delicate human form. Something that would have been dime a dozen in any museum he might have visited as a very small child. And yet, in this post-Reaper galaxy, where the vast majority of civilization had been reduced to smoking ruin two decades ago, such institutions were rarer than a Krogan/Turian love child.

Sure, schools had been rebuilt almost immediately, and life returned to normal as time dragged on. But museums built to mainly display ancient cultures had become somewhat… passé in this brave new world. People didn’t want to look backward anymore was his guess. Or perhaps as word spread about the Reapers being super ancient machines of destruction spread, people were becoming afraid of the distant past.

This particular bit of carve-work had been dredged up on Bekenstein, somewhere near an old farm. Mark had been given a tip on the Extranet about some really valuable artifacts in that area, since that planet used to be home to quite a diverse group of colonists. He had gone in hoping to find the famous and secret Donovan Hock vault, which Shepard claimed to have visited once. (He didn’t believe her.)

Instead he got this tiny statue and a lot of dirt. That was the last time he trusted suspicious Extranet tips.

“We could see if Ridek would be willing to set up a new profile on one of those auction sites. You know, the ones where you take a picture of your junk, and people bid on it like it was worth something. All we’d have to do is find a way to ship it to the buyer.”

“And how would we do that? We’re on the ragged edge as it is, Mark. We needed this job to pay out so we could get off this shithole and back to a place that has actual work.”

“And here comes the lecture…” He muttered as Siren’s metallic glare bored into him.

Around the two of them, the foot traffic parted, as if the people could instinctively tell a squabble was forming.

“Oh, excuse me for being the sole voice of reason between a man who can barely keep more than a hundred credits in his bank and a teenage Quarian who by all rights should have remained on his home world…”

 _“Hey, you guys talking about me?”_ Mark’s omni-tool interrupted the coming shitstorm with near-perfect timing. The voice was tinny and distorted, but the speaker’s obvious Quarian accent still shone through.

Siren brought her left hand up to activate her own ‘tool. “Ridek, I thought I told you not to spy on us.” Along with the frustrated words came a fake smile that translated even through the purely audio transmission.

 _“I was doing a check on the ship’s comm system.”_ The voice shot back. _“Not my fault I caught you two fighting again.”_

“We weren’t fighting.” Mark added through his own device. “We were just… discussing. The thing. And what to do.”

 _“There’s already four local ‘net discussions going on about your fight. I even managed to get some security footage from the next building over. Did you really shoot that man in the legumes?”_ Ridek’s youthful enthusiasm broke through the anxiety Marcus might have felt from Siren’s storm of discontent. There was also the fact that the Quarian had tried to use an English phrase instead of using the translator to convey “genitals”, which he found goddamn funny.

“The correct term is ‘nuts’, Ridek. And yes, she did.”

“Ridek,” Siren interrupted, “If you could have the ship ready to go by the time we arrive, I would appreciate it.”

“ _No problem,”_ The accented mechanical reply came a half second later. _“But I’m not sure how far we can go. It’ll be a miracle if we make it to the next relay, not to mention any more complex jumps.”_

“That’s okay, Ridek. I’ve got an idea.” Mark held up the stone figure for just one second more before putting it back in his pocket. After that, he picked up his pace.

 

***

 

The spaceport of Shuran colony could barely be called a port. More like a flat piece of land that had been cleared and stomped upon by countless shoes and alien-feet-analogs until no grass or native plant life remained. Dust swirled and caked around everything as various crews, merchants and travelers walked along their evenly spaced craft. A few people had given up on making it over to the market district, and tried selling their wares from their ships directly, calling out from cargo bays or hastily built stalls, which only added to the cacophony of engine noises, the clink-clank of hammers, and the sparking hisses of metal being welded. His nose, not to be outdone by the horrors breaching his ears, took in the aromas of body odor, engine coolant and the unmistakable ozone-like feeling of mass effect fields as they kept their engines running and intact.

However, one smell did attract his attention. Somewhere in between grease and electricity came the enticing smell of roasting meats, the kind you could only get from down-home cooking, and not some kind of fancy food reclamation unit. His feet instinctively turned away from his destination as the idea of filling his stomach with delicious foodstuffs overrode his need to get back to work.

And then he started coughing. Hard.

The meats were there, not a hundred paces ahead, being sold from a kiosk built right in front of a tiny ship. Unfortunately, the vendors selling said meats were Turian. As their dextro-amino-acid-laced food particles assaulted his lungs, his human body rejected everything with a violent retch and forced his lungs to cough as hard as they possibly could. A sharp, stabbing feeling assaulted his chest as he reacted to the alien particles.

For her part, Siren’s body whirred as she closed her internal breathing replacement and grabbed Mark by the shirt collar. She dragged him away, coughing and retching the entire time, until they were well out of nose-shot of the Turian vendors.

Fortunately, she dragged him in just the direction they needed to go.

Standing in the back of the lot, in the furthest, least-maintained section of Shuran colony’s “spaceport”, stood a ship.

 _His_ ship.

Small, yes. About three twice the size of a standard Alliance shuttle. But it made up for its lack of girth by having engines attached to its sides that could have put a military Starfighter to shame. Huge, round, and very powerful, they not gave the impression that ship was lean, mean and fast, it could back up those impressions with gusto. It had guns, too, a couple of standard mass driver cannons positioned just before those massive engines, to either side of the protruding cockpit. The adopted son of Shepard would never pilot a ship that wasn’t armed.

Of course, to match a few personal specifications, the tiny ship had been painted dark colors. Not too dark, as to void Citadel-space laws on keeping ships visible to most species’ visual spectrums, but to continue making a statement on what this ship was all about.

This wasn’t just some stupid light freighter or personal yacht. This ship meant business. It could run, smuggle, fight, or do anything for the right price.

And having lived with two Asari for a good chunk of his life, Marcus had chosen a name for it that signed and sealed this message in electronic ink:

_Yakshi._

Night wind.

The fact that the English translation could also be considered a term for farting had not come to him at the time he wrote it down. He thought it was cool.

Also, in the warm light of Shuran colony’s twin suns, he could tell that some of that paint had begun to chip off during the ship’s many planetary landings. The dark grey had faded a bit, giving it a plain, almost beige color in some other areas.

Finally, he hadn’t been able to afford industrial-grade thermal clips for the ship’s weapons in months. Fortunately, he almost never needed to fire the damn things.

Still, juvenile fantasy and realistic decay had come together for Marcus carter, and they spoke one word to him: home.

This was where he belonged.

Siren let go of his shirt and pressed the button that would eventually lower the Yakshi’s cargo ramp and allow them access to the vessel. After its old mechanisms stopped screeching and complaining, of course. Another thing he needed to fix.

“So what’s this master plan you told Ridek about?” She asked as they waited.

Marcus let out one more girly cough before palming the stone statuette one last time.

“Have you ever wanted to visit Arcturus station?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal picture for the Yakshi is based on this concept from Star Citizen. The [Freelancer](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/clsumG6NZIk/maxresdefault.jpg)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah... been a while, huh? 
> 
> Would you believe that most of the delays came from me losing the outline to this? Well, there was of course some writer's block, a lack of time due to classes, and now a Dragon Age story that's taking a lot of my concentration, but I never forgot this! And now here's a new chapter! I can't promise a return to any semblance of regularity with this, given my schedule and other currently-running fic, but updates WILL happen.

Jane Shepard’s chest rumbled as an animalistic growl escaped her lips. All subsequent breath escaped her lungs, held back for an eternity as she took in every detail around her. She counted down, surveying her surroundings in total silence before taking in a clipped, measured breath, just to stave off the early effects of oxygen deprivation.

All those years ago, back when she was a young woman with two arms and limitless potential, she had been given the opportunity to train with the Alliance’s best infiltrators and snipers. Those weeks spent in mock battlefields had made her almost as good a shot as Garrus, though she would never admit that he was a little better with his rifle handling. That training kept her alive across countless battlefields, just as it served her now. Though her career had skyrocketed into a fast-track command, the lessons were never forgotten.

Her leg muscles, and her weak right knee, sent lances of agony up her body as she flexed them, curling her body as low as it could go. But still she forced the contortion, because she had no choice.

Her heartbeat spiked.

Her vision narrowed. There was nothing to see anyway. Just flashes of light and shadow that intersected in patterns only a trained soldier could recognize.

The sounds of gunfire had overtaken everything around her. The familiar barks and cracks of weapons she long ago put down, now brought back to life in this hour of greatest need, and had consumed all other noise.

She had no choice, and no time, left.

The fingers of her left hand, her sole hand, curled around the ergonomic grip of her weapon. The weight felt comfortable, familiar. As if she had never let it go in the first place. The mix of hard and soft materials in her palm felt as natural in her hand as her own wife’s blue grip. The sharpness of the trigger against her finger sat more comfortable than her own wedding ring.

She had been born to do this.

Now or never.

Everything depended on her.

She exhaled one last time.

And squeezed.

CRACK.

…

 _“Unacceptable.”_ The annoying Salarian who refused to shut his goddamn lizard mouth spoke over the open comm. _“BestMakoDriver54 is clearly cheating. A headshot from that range is statistically improbable.”_ Her ears rang every time he spoke. She would have to adjust the audio sensitivities again.

Shepard’s mind cleared as she took in the results of her victory. The large vidscreen before her showed a fictional battlefield on a fictional alien planet, littered with the burning remains of a dozen small craft, as well as craters and ruins that made no sense from a logical standpoint. But from a gamer’s vision, they were perfect places to find cover, set up ambushes, or attempt risky recon on the enemy team.

Her character, a human decked out in the best armor and weapons the game could offer, stood in a victory pose as the final score was tallied among the players. 

The chaotic sounds of battle disappeared as the terrible synthetic victory music droned.

 _“You’re just mad ‘cause you lost.”_ Another voice, a young person a few years away from puberty, spoke back over the same channel.

_“I am making a formal complaint to the owner of this server. Either ban BestMakoDriver54 for cheating or I will never play again.”_

_“Keep crying.”_ The kid taunted back.

_“Unacceptable behavior. I am now reporting you as well.”_

Jane stopped paying attention to the annoying banter as she took in the scores. As always, she took the top spot. _BestMakoDriver54_ had garnered quite the reputation in this combat sim game, and the latest match proved no different. Most kills out of anyone, almost all of them headshots. Fewest deaths, of course. The only times she fell in battle these days were when she couldn’t turn the camera fast enough, or her specialized controller couldn’t react as smoothly as she liked.

Oh well.

Even as she dropped it, Shepard spared a glance at the hardware that allowed her to play these games just as well as… okay, much better than… the normal setups that damn near everyone else used. It resembled a brick of plastic, but with all the buttons and devices arranged in a way that her fingertips could comfortably reach as soon as she grabbed it. Naturally, the trigger saw the most use, since she preferred these kinds of action vid-games to others. Her omni-tool linked with the controller to sense her motions and translate them to the simulation, allowing perfect control of everything in the computer world. Perfectly seamless, though it took a little getting used to.

A half second after she dropped the controller on the couch, Jane ripped the earpiece away, turning the near shouting match between the juveniles of two species turn into incoherent scratches and creaks of noise.

“Did you make them cry?” A new voice came from behind, this one not over an extranet comm system.

Shepard turned her head, mindful to not whip around too fast and aggravate the muscles in her neck, to respond.

A young Asari stood behind the couch she sat on. Beautiful and blue, just like her mother, but with a face covered in white markings that were apparently all the rage on Thessia these days.

“Of course I did, Falani.” Jane smiled up at her daughter. “You can listen to the comm if you want, they’re still whining.”

Very little of Jane’s face reflected back at her. She expected that, and reminded herself of it every day. This was not her biological daughter in the classic human sense, but a child entirely of Liara’s, with just a few bits of random information thrown in from Shepard’s genetic code. However, even in the face of all that depressing science talk, Jane felt a deep sense of satisfaction whenever she saw Falani’s deep emerald eyes. Not quite the same shade as hers, and with a pattern of blue hidden behind them that showed her alien biology, but still vibrant and very green. Random chance had been kind to Shepard for once in her life.

Falani leaned down and put the earpiece up to her head, though she had no place to rest it. Her aqua expression shifted from amusement to horror and to extreme mirth in a few short moments.

“Wow.” She said as she set the device down. “That’s got to be a new record.”

“You know it.” Shepard winked as she stood and reached her hand out to Falani. Her right knee still gave her trouble, even twenty years after injuring it, so she often used supports to ease mundane activities like standing. Out in the world, she used a specialized knee brace that handled much of her body’s weight for her, or sometimes she busted out an old cane that served as both a walking stick and an impromptu weapon. In her own home, she used her daughter.

The young Asari smiled as she leaned forward and allowed Jane to hold onto her shoulder and pull herself up. “So what’s on the agenda today, besides enraging young gamers?”

“I don’t know.” Jane said as she let go of her daughter and limped toward the apartment’s large kitchen. All of the amenities a modern food preparation station needed were contained within, donated by the Alliance and hundreds of other well-wishers, and all of them were cleaned and polished within an inch of their life. Mostly because the Shepard household rarely used them. Instead, the human went to a small section of the largest cupboard, flung it open with her one hand, and reached for a pre-packaged energy bar. “I figured I’d just make today up as I went along. Besides, don’t you have school work or something to concentrate on?”

Falani’s jovial expression soured. “It’s my day off just as much as yours, dad.”

“Tell that to the bills I have to pay to keep you enrolled in that school of yours. Private education ain’t cheap, you know.” Shepard teased as she bit into the manufactured slab of processed food. Tasteless as always, but it reminded her of the days on the first Normandy, where storage space had been limited, and much of the rations came in such small, packaged forms.

“I didn’t choose to go there. You could have just as easily let me go to a public school, like all of my friends did.”

Shepard smiled at the unusually mature response from an unusually mature Asari maiden. Just like her mother. “And have all the little brown humans make fun of my beautiful blue baby? Not a chance?”

“There are only three other Asari in my apparently expensive private school.” Falani rolled her eyes. “You just didn’t want to repeat the same mistake you made with Marcus.”

Shepard’s daughter clapped her hand over her lips the moment she said the name, and her green eyes went wide. “Goddess, I didn’t mean that.”

In years past, Jane might have bristled at that argument. She might even have gotten emotional and asked Falani to leave the room. But that ship sailed the day he walked out of their home and started a new life for himself out in the galaxy.

She was over it. Just like she was done with this conversation.

“It’s fine.” She said as she tossed the half-eaten energy bar into the waste disposal unit. “I’m gonna go talk to your mom now.”

With a little more haste than necessary, Shepard left her daughter alone and walked down one of the apartment’s immaculate wood-paneled halls, until she reached a sealed door. Other people would have needed to provide a handprint, retina scan, and electronic permission to gain entrance to the room behind it. Jane just needed to wave her omni-tool over the green locking mechanism.  

Shepard beheld darkness, and the faint blue and gold illumination of a dozen different video screens and holographic displays.

Inside, an office had been built just for Liara and her official duties as an information broker, political liaison, and whatever million things she busied herself with. But a decade of modifications, upgrades, secret exchanges and shady deals had turned it into something else entirely. The Alliance, who had paid for and built the apartment, thought they knew every bolt and drop of paint that had gone into the residence. They also thought that every hidden security camera, audio recorder and pressure sensor had gone unnoticed.

They wanted to build a fortress for the savior of the galaxy and her family, what they instead built was the perfect hiding spot for the most powerful individual in existence. It had been no trouble for Liara to reprogram those “security” devices to report false information, and child’s play to smuggle her own equipment into the room, which upgraded her computing ability a thousand fold.

The small room had become the headquarters for the Shadow Broker.

The secretive Asari herself stood in the middle of the displays, their blue-orange glow bathing her scaled skin in an odd light. Most of the monitors hovered over Liara, showering her with information as she looked up, but a few moved to hand-level, and she manipulated them without looking.

“Have agent Nephtu make another report in two hours. No delays.” She said to someone, then turned her head and spoke again. “I want a full transcript of the senator’s debriefing. Deliver it to me within the next solar day.” Another turn and she faced a different holographic projection. “I don’t care what the primarchs want. Give them my ultimatum, or I’ll find someone who can do it for you.”

Jane stepped into the black room, and it almost felt as if she trod into open space itself. Liara kept the office cold, as to let her stacks of computer equipment run at greater efficiency. Indeed, if she concentrated on a far wall, she could see a faint wisp of moisture drop from a vent. Very atmospheric. The only lights came from the monitors, which were not solid displays of color, but dynamic and swirling cacophonies of different colors, resembling a holographic map of the galaxy as they hovered around the Shadow Broker.

“Having fun?” Jane asked as she stepped closer to her wife.

“Oh! Shepard!” Liara exclaimed as she smashed her hand onto one of the displays, cutting their feeds and bringing the office into total darkness. A moment later, they returned to life, but with softer, more muted displays.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Was this a bad time?” The human asked as the computer equipment resumed operations.

“No, of course not.” Liara stammered as she often did when caught in the middle of working. “Well, no, actually, yes. I need to do a hundred more things in the next hour, or a dozen planets will have their economies go under, and a few human politicians need to be reminded of…”

Shepard smiled and finished her approach to her bondmate and wrapped her arm around her blue shoulders. “Can I have just five seconds?”

Liara returned the grin. “Of course.”

Falani’s words about Marcus still burned in Jane’s mind, but she tossed them aside. Right here, in front of her, she had the best distraction in the world.

Naturally, just as she started leaning forward to initiate a quick kiss (and maybe something more, given the privacy the room provided), all of the Shadow Broker’s devices roared to life. In the span of a millisecond, the entire room lit up with reds, deep oranges and Asari-blood purple. All traces of the comforting darkness had been banished, and every inch of Liara's complex system glowered in the light.

Jane also didn’t need to wait for a translation of the technical crap that flew in front of her face. She could recognize what the multi-colored holograms showed with disturbing clarity.

Every single monitor showed the same image: Samantha Traynor, a valued ally, war comrade, dear friend, and recent addition to the Shadow Broker’s network, dead on the floor of her house.


	5. Chapter 5

Where there had been calm and serenity just moments before, Liara’s office now screamed in a cacophony of deep lavender, scarlet, and riotous klaxons. The images of Traynor’s body drifted away as the Shadow Broker manipulated four holographic keyboards at one, one with each hand, and two others with thrumming, electric biotics. The Asari’s eyes darted back and forth, pouring over information almost as fast as a computer might disseminate combat data. Liara’s head darted from side to side almost fast enough for Jane to hear the bones in her neck creak from the strain.

“No. No this can’t be happening.” Liara muttered as she worked. “I taught her every precaution, trained her in…” She trailed off as she prodded through yet more data.

Not wanting to feel useless in the panic, Jane turned to her right and activated a new holographic interface and waved her omni-tool over it. Many of the same images of Traynor’s dead body flashed on this screen, but they came at a much slower pace, allowing Shepard to examine the evidence with her trained eye. As Liara continued to talk under her breath, Jane moved her hand up to the holographic keyboard and moved her fingers in slow, plodding motions that typed simple commands. In stark contrast to her wife’s symphony of keystrokes from physical and biotic manipulation, Shepard felt like an ape putting on a show rather than a child of the advanced 22nd century. But she still got the job done, and the insane data was replaced with a simple news blotter of Earth-relevant news. Another keystroke, and the news filtered to Alliance-specific stories.

And there, clear as day:

_Lieutenant Commander Samantha Traynor, fresh from a goodwill assignment to the Salarian homeworld, was found dead in her home at 06:20 hours this morning, local Earth time. The cause of death is still unknown, and an official statement has yet to be released by Alliance officials. She is survived by her wife of seven years…_

Jane cut the feed off and pressed three more buttons on the keyboard with a clumsy hand, and Samatha’s lifeless face greeted her once again. Shepard spared a moment to not just see the body displayed before her, but the woman who had grown so much over the last twenty years. From the moment she met a nervous young soldier completely out of her depth during the war, to a respectable officer well on her way to a command of her own. Shepard had been present at her wedding, and even showed up for a housewarming party when she bought her dream house, a little place with a white picket fence.

A few new wrinkles covered Sam’s face, and a wisp of grey or two stuck out on her head, but she still looked so damn young. Much too young to die. Had Shepard been any younger herself, she might have smashed her fist into the holographic display, or at violently shut the image off rather than face the pain. But she didn’t. She stared. She memorized each and every one of those wrinkles and the position of the grey hairs that had begun to take hold. In the place of heavy-lidded closed eyes, Shepard transposed her memories of Traynor’s youthful and lively face.

Jane couldn’t help herself as her gaze drifted downward, away from Sam’s resting visage, and toward the wounds that caused this horrific event. The angle the image made it difficult to determine exactly what had happened, probably an intentional decision to spare people the true gory details. But in the static picture, Jane could see telltale marks of ash and carbon arranged in concentric circles all across her torso. Four in all, perfectly aimed gunshots meant to do maximum damage. If Shepard found any comfort in this horrific scenario, it was that Samantha would have died instantly from those wounds. She didn’t suffer.

Something curious caught Jane’s eye. The wounds on Tranyor’s body were unmistakable gunshots, and yet they looked strange. Something about the deep black pit at the center of each wound, where the bullet would have impacted, drew Shepard closer. Though she hadn’t fired a weapon in decades, she still recognized certain wounds when she saw them. She could never forget what kind of damage guns left behind. These wounds looked very odd. Almost too perfect. As if the shooter had done something to minimize what had been left behind, including the residual affects of massive body trauma.  

There was no blood in the picture. Not even leaking from Samantha’s lips. Even the most high powered and fancy rifle Shepard utilized in her career left blood behind. Even the Geth combat units bled their weird liquid when she shot them.

“Liara.” Shepard said with an unsure lilt. To her side, the Shadow Broker continued to work like a madwoman, talking and muttering, updating and plotting a dozen different things at once. Glyph’s interface hovered over her head like a faithful puppy, listening to her every word and acting on commands that Jane could barely hear.

“Liara, look at this.”

“I can see it, Jane.” Liara snapped back.

“No, come here.”

Liara let out an egregious sigh before her biotics fizzled away, filling the cold room with a heavy ozone scent. Her about-face would have put any military unit to shame, and her look of frustration would have doused a star’s rage. “What is it?”

Shepard reached her hand up to indicate the marks she saw on Traynor’s body. “Look at those.”

“Gunshot wounds, what of them? I have an agent ready to give me a copy of the coroner’s report as soon as it’s filed. We’ll know exactly what kind of weapon did… that. And then we’ll be able to trace the killer.”

“They’re not from a gun.”

“What?”

Liara stepped closer to Shepard’s display, even though the room contained dozens of examples of the exact same image. The Asari leaned close enough to put her nose against the hard light, and stared for a long moment.

“I don’t understand. What do you see in this, Jane?”

“Liara, I know weapons. And I know what wounds left behind by those weapons look like. This isn't something I’m familiar with.”

“What do you think it is?” Liara didn’t turn around, she just continued to look.

Shepard stood and pondered, lost in memories decades old. Flashes of articles she read, briefings she attended, and top-secret documents meant for her eyes only flashed in her mind’s eye, but none of them felt relevant. “I really don’t know. But it doesn’t look good.”

“That’s not an answer.” The Shadow Broker said as she turned around and regarded the one-armed human with an icy stare.

“I know. I’ll… keep trying to think.”

“See that you do.”

And with that, Liara turned away, returning to her symphony of keystrokes and commands. Although the room remained a riot of noises and alarms, Shepard felt cold and isolated. Seeing her friend like that, after so many years of this "happily ever after" with a rebuilt galaxy, a family, and a good life, gripped her heart and didn't let go.

“Liara, I…”

When she got no response, Shepard closed her eyes and brought her knuckles up to them. She wiped away the first hints of teardrops with her thumb and forefinger. It took monumental effort to keep her heart from thudding against her ribcage and exacerbating old wounds left behind by the war. Her lungs burned from the exertion, but she kept herself from shaking.

“She was our friend, Jane. And an… ally. I can’t stand still while her death remains a mystery.”

“I know.”

Without speaking, asking permission, or giving any indication whatsoever, Shepard stepped behind her wife and wrapped her hand around Liara’s blue torso. Her head found purchase on the Asari’s shoulder.

“I just never thought it would be _her_ who… died first. I always thought it would be-”

“I know.” Liara said before Shepard could finish her sentence. After all they had been through, after everything Jane endured, neither of them held any illusions that Shepard would outlive anyone.

Jane nuzzled her head deeper into her wife’s shoulder, finding comfort in the cloth and skin she knew so well. The Shadow Broker continued her work. Sometimes, Jane did this when she returned from an assignment from the Alliance, and the two of them were too tired or frustrated to speak. This simple gesture, borne of days long past when the pressures of war and saving the galaxy left them no time to themselves, spoke volumes. Back on the Normandy, when the entire galaxy fell apart, Jane found herself doing this in Liara’s quarters-turned-office as the newly-minted Shadow Broker labored to keep things stable. It had become a symbol and gesture of comfort and understanding, a port in the storms of their lives. The day Marcus left, Shepard remained like this for hours. She had no idea how long she’d have to stand here now.

That’s when the alarms stopped.

And the room went black.

Shepard’s head whipped up, although her eyes only beheld a void. Liara’s warm presence kept her grounded in reality, but it was a flimsy anchor.

“What…”

“ _Shadow Broker_.” A voice cut through the silence. Loud and horrific, it almost screamed at the two women locked in the dark room. The obvious warbles and scratches of computer manipulation made it all the worse. Jane tried to cover her ears, but the lack of a right arm prevented her from blocking the sound. Based on the way Liara’s body writhed against hers, Shepard knew her wife had done the same. _“Olam Ha-ba.”_ It said.

“What does that mean!?” Jane shouted to the darkness.

Fortunately, the voice spoke no more, and light returned to the room a moment later. The displays and equipment whirred and whined as electricity flowed through their circuits and reactivated their mechanisms. After such a void of silence, the cacophony of machines was almost as deafening as the voice. Shepard couldn't tell if some of the noises were from the electronics, or the ringing left behind by the incredibly loud voice.

Shepard pulled away from her wife, dread filling her veins with ice water. “Liara, we need to…”

 The message had been received loud and clear. If someone knew where and how to hit the Shadow Broker’s electronics, they were no longer safe. Not even on Earth.

“No need to explain. I’m already arranging transport.”

“What about Falani?”

“We’ll take her with us.”

A cold sweat beaded on Jane’s forehead and pooled down her back. “Liara, if this… voice knows where we live… won’t they know when and how you set up transport?”

Liara paused. “Yes.”

“Then who could you possibly call?”

 

***

 

“Now, listen to me carefully, lil’ man.” Marcus said as he paced back and forth in the _Yakshi_ ’s tiny cockpit. “The most important part of talking to ladies who speak English is that you don’t refer to their undergarments as… well… undergarments. You need to be smooth, sophisticated, and intelligent if you want to charm a human woman. Fortunately, you have a human male right here who can tell you everything you need to know. You get me?”

“Yes. I understand.” Ridek said from the pilot’s seat. The young Quarian’s eyes glowed behind his opaque mask. Well, they always glowed no matter what, but Marcus could tell that, at this moment, they glowed brighter than usual. His green suit fidgeted, eager to learn a new phrase of a totally alien language. All around Ridek, beyond the fuzzy windows of the starship’s command section, the stars twinkled and danced in time.

“So, first, let’s go over the rules we’ve already established when talking to human ladies. First, you approach with…” He trailed off, waiting for the reply.

“Square shoulders. Oh, and confident walking.”

“Exactly. And then?”

“Use that same confidence in your words. But don’t sound _too_ confident, or they will think you’re a… um… what’s the word?”

“Creep. Scumbag. Weirdo. Jerk. Jackoff. Take your pick.” Marcus said as he used his fingers to accentuate the phrases. “Human women are psychic, so they’ll know when you’re not being genuine. You must be sincere in your confidence. And finally?”

“You walk up to a woman, look her in the eye and say. ‘I would like to see your undergarments.’”

“Yes!” Marcus smiled. “But remember that you don’t say ‘undergarments’. Not in polite conversation, anyway. Leave that for when you actually get to the bedroom. Today, I’ll teach you the actual phrases to use when you meet someone special.”

“Bedroom, yes.” If it were possible, the Quarian’s expression brightened even further behind the mask and his real face seemed almost pressed against the opaque glass he hid behind. Ridek seemed barely capable of absorbing this information. Probably for the best.

“So, let’s say you find the right lady. She’s got everything you’re looking for. Nice skin, perfect hair, beautiful smile.” Marcus mimed walking forward and then pausing, as if admiring ineffable beauty. “You just _gotta_ make a move. So you walk up and say-“

“I would like to see your…” Ridek interrupted with the English phrase. His accent warbled through his suit’s filter system, and he would need months of practice before anyone but the _Yakshi_ crew understood a word he said, but he was making good progress.

“I would like to see your _pantaloons_.” Marcus stretched the last word out to make sure Ridek comprehended it. “Pantaloons. Say it with me now.”

“Pantalooooooooooons.” Ridek did a similar thing with the word, mimicking his teacher’s mannerisms with total perfection.

“Keep practicing, buddy. You’re almost there.” Marcus could barely keep his grin under control as Ridek turned toward the ship’s pilot controls while still repeating the word over and over. His cheeks burned and his skin turned beet red as he struggled to reign his laughter in.

“You’re a dick.” Siren said as she entered the minuscule cockpit. She bumped into Marcus with a belligerent shove as she made her presence known. Ridek paid no attention as he repeated the word ‘pantaloons’ to himself.

“Oh, that’s a word I didn’t think of!” Marcus said as he plopped down in the copilot chair. “Besides, I thought you were the one who wanted me to expand Ridek’s cultural horizons.”

“You’re going to have to tell him the truth.” She growled at Mark.

“Pantaloons!” Ridek whispered, trying to keep his new word secret from Siren. Unfortunately, he accentuated each syllable to a ridiculous degree, saying “punt-uh-loons” with perfect clarity.

“He’s a growing boy, he’ll figure it out. Besides, aren’t all Quarians supposed to be crazy attractive anyway? Maybe when he’s old enough, it won’t matter what he says.”

Siren sighed and pressed her metallic fingertips against her forehead. Her eyes squeezed shut in a common display of annoyance. She sighed and pulled the tiny statuette from Mark’s pocket, ready to drop the whole conversation.  “So let me get this straight. You want us to fly to one of the most heavily armed space stations in the galaxy, the literal center of Earth’s military, and… _con someone_?”

“Not just any someone.” Marcus corrected with a smirk. “A _senator_.”

“How many times were you hit over the head back at the bar? Four? Five? Can I hit you again?”

Marcus snatched the statue away from Siren’s grasp. “What’s one thing you absolutely must have if you want to get into government?”

“A plan?”

“Nope.”

“Security?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“A functional nervous system?”

“Actually, not so much. No, what you actually need to get a seat in politics is money. Lots of it.”

“And you think you’ll find a stupid governmental buyer on Arcturus station?” Siren’s violet eyes flashed orange as her frustration rose.

“You kidding? There are hundreds of old people on that station just dying to get their hands on some ancient Earth crap. The Reapers destroyed, what, sixty percent of all the cities and town on the planet? There’s no telling what got lost in those times.”  

“But we don’t even know if the statue is genuine.”

“Neither would they.” Marcus returned with a smarmy grin.

“I don’t believe this.”

“If you have any better plan for getting us gas money, I’d love to hear it.” Mark returned the statue to his pocket and put his feet up on the copilot console, forcing himself into a relaxed pose in the tiny space.

That’s when every alarm on the ship blared to life, bathing the three inhabitants in yellow light and assaulting their ears with riotous noise.

Marcus yanked his feet down as fast as his muscled allowed and turned toward Ridek. “The hell is going on!?” He shouted over the klaxons that echoed through his vessel. The ship’s internal light flickered between red and orange.

“I don’t know!” The Quarian shouted. “The computer is registering… something!”

Mark leaned forward and slid his fingers over his own console, his digits flying over the familiar controls. Behind him, Siren activated her omni-tool and did much the same.

“This can’t be right.” He muttered as he looked at the same computer readouts that gave Ridek pause.

“Is someone hacking us?” Siren asked.

“It looks like.” Marcus confirmed.

“Why would anyone hack us? We suck!”

“Can you fight it?” Marcus asked Ridek.

“I’m trying. Whoever is doing this is good. Very good.” All vestiges of the wide-eyed teenager disappeared as Ridek descended into his element. The Quarian’s weird alien hands worked the _Yakshi_ ’s controls like a maestro conductor, flitting and moving in imperceptible ways that somehow got results. For someone so young, he put the most technically impressive beings Marcus had ever known to shame. The only way he could have worked faster was if he put a neural interface into his brain and connected it to the ship’s computer. Unfortunately, those were out of Mark’s price range by several billion credits.

“Try harder. That’s what I pay you for.”

“Wait, you pay me?” Ridek quipped as he worked. He muttered several filthy phrases in his own native tongue, mixed with familiar words like “bosh’tet”.

Now and again, the Yakshi’s warning lights would dim and disappear, but would return with renewed force after but a heartbeat’s pause. Ridek continued his magic work.

“Marcus Carter…” Siren warned. “If we all die because of a computer virus you picked up somewhere, I’m going to be so pissed at you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m used to sleeping on the couch.”

And then the ship went black, leaving the distant stars as the _Yakshi_ ’s only illumination. The total void of information blinded Marcus for a moment, and it took an embarrassing amount of time before he oriented himself to the situation. Power outages weren't especially uncommon in space, many vessels cycled their power all the time. But not all ships were as small and vulnerable as his.

“Well at least the gravity’s still…” Marcus said just as he felt his rear end slide off his seat.

“ _Son bitch balls mother eff!_ ” Ridek shouted a string of broken English curses as his console went dead. In the near absence of light, Marcus could see the Quarian’s expression shift into terror. Behind him, Siren’s artificial components did much the same.

“When I find you, I’m going to strangle you!” Siren whispered in the stillness.

“It’s okay. I can fix this.” Marcus said as he swallowed a massive lump of nerves down his throat. His voice cracked like a teenager’s as he spoke, preventing him from sounding anything like a hero in this dire moment.

With no gravity holding him down, Mark shoved upward from his seat and pivoted his body around so his toes pressed against the cold glass that served as his vessel’s front window. He dared not use too much muscle power lest he crunch himself against something hard and unyielding in the darkness. He used Ridek and Siren’s natural lights to orient himself before turning toward the hatch that opened into the rest of the ship.

As soon as he starting floating out of the cockpit, light returned to the _Yakshi_. As did the gravity.

Marcus Carter hit the deck with enough force to send him sprawling face-first. Ridek remained secure in his seat, held down by a security web, while Siren gracefully returned to a standing position.

  
“ _Shadow Broker_.” A voice screamed through the ship’s comm system, drowning out all other sounds and forcing all three occupants to put their hands up to their ears. Mark held back a scream as he felt his eardrums pound against themselves. “ _Olam Ha-ba.”_ It said before cutting off.

It took some time for the trio to recover. Ridek spent several seconds tapping his hands against his suit’s helmet, trying to restart his audio processors. Siren did something similar, trying to fix her artificial ears. Marcus groaned and wriggled on the floor of his ship.

“Any idea what that meant?” He asked, his face still smashed against the cold deck plate.

“No idea.” Siren chimed in after she finished rubbing her ears. “But I think this means we won’t be going to Arcturus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever wondered what I think Siren looks like,I was inspired by [this piece](https://i.imgur.com/87ub5bm.jpg) by Alexander Chelyshev.


End file.
